The doctor cuts me like a paper doll
to source the sadness, takes vials of tissue
for those who’ve stopped feeling.
Too many to count.
He adds something blue.
The waiting room is a weep of concertos.
Elegant against news
Hester L. Furey
They say this was Napoleon’s card.
After WWII the Eisenhower-led liberal conservatives came home and set about installing some of Hitler’s improvements, starting with the interstate highway system. That transportation artery is known in Chicago as “the Stevenson” and “the Eisenhower.” Here in Georgia, we call it … view
Hester L. Furey
Our greatest sins as a nation in the US have sprung from our desire for simple, ham-handed tales with which to manage the world. What has saved us is our variety, the multiplicity of margins, our collective failure to live in the same symbolic reality, our unpredictable … view
The immense scale of the vast steppe, open vistas and the sense of emptiness, made me aware of the smallness and humbleness of the human scale. The total sensory void has a cleansing effect on my soul. The featureless landscape readjusted my mind and the gut-shaking, bone-rattling rides on bumpy … view
The strangest thing about Robert is how his voice changed in the years after he died. In the beginning, it was the wailing of a newborn infant, always at the other end of the house from where I was. Sometimes, the voice laughed – the happiest little infant giggles from … view
And so, the sexual assaults continued.
The police did their part, but it was not the part that the law called for. They did all they could, but still, protest persisted.
Eventually, the cops hauled in Huge. That name was the only one anyone alive knew for him — even … view
James Croal Jackson
I open my eyes and watch the tiny feet do their little dance under the door. I squeeze my eyes shut, open them again, and watch an exact replay. One more time to be sure. I close and open my eyes, and the third performance lets me know all is … view
Girl who rises from the ash heap of Domremy, girl brown
as your father’s cattle, you are cinder-smirched, embered
until even your eyes burn black. Like most heroines in these stories
you have two sisters, and a destiny. Your sisters, Catherine
and Margaret, who we … view
Richard King Perkins II
A newfound anti-algorithm will either bring us together
or prevent us from ever meeting.
We are muted orange and neither of us
is to be believed; burdened by deniers that our mutual vision
somehow extends across solder shades and antimony countryside.
My mouth … view